
|e Ore 




tnc 



p s 

35^15 

(D\(o5G:X 

|9t3 







LEIGH • MITCHELL • HODGES 




Rnnk. '^ Uc ', (^'( 
Copyright N"ilL^_ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




^ 



[. '-"'-^iifti;^.. s<>j. ..■-'■^,, ,-,- -. 



Cte #reat encouragement 

Xetgf) iWitcfjell ^lobgeg 





;;^;^--:v.:^/:;::.:,;;^*-^^^^-^/^;^^ 





^^^}^^v:^;^^fe;#^i^^••^j;^^i^•^;^|^^ 



tKfje (great encouragement 

Heigfi iHitcfjell ||olJgeg 

(tCfjf (j^ptimifift) ' ^ 
auttor of 

Cfje i^reat 0ptmifit 
W^t Wi(Mt\^ of ^erfaice 
^fie Hife ISSorti) OTfiile 




^M 



©obge ^utjligfjins Companp 

214-220 €8«t 23b Street. JSeto gotfe 





/:-\.^,f.^.. . ^j^...^..tv. ..:;--., m^^:^. — ..^ 







Copyright, 1913, By 
Dodge Publishing Company 




©CI.A351260 




'^'•n ^^ 



^'^^-- 



^^^^' 




perfect frienbsfiip f)a& 
htm to me a great 
encouragement « « 









Contents 

I. tKift <@reat Cncoutrasement 

II. (^oUi^^eefeins 

III. ian Sbcal 

IV. ®f)e *«Toice 

V. ^bratam Etncoln'g Jf ailure 

VI. Cfje i&insbom of ^lap 

VII. Snasfmutij 

VIII. Clje Storms! of lilt 

IX. tKfjc lart of Work 

X. ^ Bream 





-'n-^.^ 
'^^A 



rjTSJPsp 







I 



Ij^tiittxiaf^ tontintt- 
^im^ are feepg toljiclb 
Uiill unlocfe tfje troors? 
to to=irap*s; bictoriejS* 





■'.•^••rsf-ii- 



i^HE; Great EK^bpRAGE^lEiijI 




W^t (fireat encouragement 

MY friend, this is the great encourage- 
ment — that it has happened often be- 
fore to many another. 

And has been conquered ! 

It does not matter what your burden may 
be. Fate may seem to have singled you out. 
You may think none ever had to suffer as you 
are suffering; to bear what you must bear. 

But you are not alone. 

Over this same rough stretch of the Road 
multitudes have dragged through the dust of 
despair. Through all the years men and 
women — even little children — have kept climb- 
ing these same steeps. 

They are near you now, though you may 
not know. 

Stretch out your hand or give one call, 
and you will find you are not alone. Speak 
with some of these, and you may learn yours 
is not the hardest lot. 

Look back across the centuries, and some- 
where you will see a case like yours crowned 
with victory. 




IIThe. Great ENCoyRAGE^ENl 




What once has been borne and conquered 
can be borne and conquered again. 

Reject, if you choose, the counsel of those 
who see you struggling and try to help. Still 
you face the changeless fact that in years gone 
many a burden like the one now taxing your 
strength and courage has been carried bravely 
to relief; is being so carried to-day, and per- 
haps by some weaker than you. 

You are not alone. 

You cannot be alone when you suffer. 

At once you come into companionship with 
all who have lived. From the earliest dawn of 
human consciousness your loss, your grief, 
your heart-ache has been part of the common 
lot. 

And through all the ages it has been fought 
— and conquered! 

You, too, can conquer. 

Whatever your fight, you can conquer. 

Yours may not be a showy victory like 
Wellington's at Waterloo. It may be such 
a quiet one that none but you will know. But 
that does not count. 

The great fact is that you can conquer. 

To do this you must have faith in your- 
self as an instrument fashioned and placed by 





The Great ENCouit^GE^ENTlly 



the hand of the Infinite Master. You must 
determine and be patient. 

And you must work on. 

For lagging or longing there is no laurel. 

You must believe victory is possible. 

"That is where I fail," you say. 

You believe to-morrow will come, do you 
not? This you base on the fact that always 
"to-morrow" has come — nothing more. 

Always victory has come to those who 
willed and worked and waited. 

Why should it not come to you? 

There is no reason why it should not. 
There is a Past full of reasons why it should 
come. And it will! 

It may not be the triumph you visioned. 

To men it may look like defeat. 

But in your heart you will know, and God 
will know, and that is enough. 




TT ife'sJ truest ricfjeg 

are tf)os;e lufjitfj onlp 

fjearte anb goufe can 





■w 



Jhe Great ENCouRAGEMENTi 



.MiiL. 




<!lolti=^eefeins 



HIS little hand was soft and warm and so 
was her little hand, and neither of them 
could keep step with me as we walked along 
the old, old road in the early morning. 

"We will hunt for gold," I said. And they 
laughed and were gay as we started. 

"Some one already has been here," he 
shouted, seeing footprints. 

"Yes, many have come this way." 

"Did all of them find gold?" he asked. I 
told him I did not know. 

"We'll find it," he said cheerily. "Let's 
go faster! I like gold. It is so shiny and 
pretty. Once I had some, — on the top of a 
candy box. We played with it ever so long 
and it never got dull at all." 

"I'm sure we'll find it," she said. 



A butterfly coursed near — a yellow butterfly. 
Its wings glistened in the sunlight. 

"There is our gold," she cried. "Let me get 
it." 





The Great EncourageMentI 



.Ms 



M^ 



l^tiiL. 




I told her it was not our gold. We were 
hunting a kind that would buy things and 
bring us pleasure and rest and all such good. 

So on we walked, and came to a field thick- 
sprinkled with dandelions. 

"There, there it is!" they chorused. "Now 
we can have all we want. Isn't it beautiful! 
And there's such a lot of it !" 

"Those are wild flowers," I said. "They will 
not buy anything." 

"Is gold only good for buying things?" she 
asked. 

I had to say yes. 



The day grew old. 

Into the west dropped the sun, leaving the 
sky aglow with its good-night smile. 

"Surely that is what we are hunting," he 
said. "Where could we find more gold?" 

"That is not it, my boy. The gold we are 
hunting is dug out of the ground or sifted from 
sand or passed from one to another. That is 
only mock-gold. It will not buy things. We 
must go on." 

Into the night we went. It was dark, at 
first, and chilly. They held tighter to me and 
said they were tired and wanted to sleep. 





?m 



JjHE Great ENCOURACE^ENi 



.rrr-T;. 




Then he caught sight of the stars and he 
knew they were our gold. 
But I knew better — or thought I did. 

Their hands were thin and knotted, and I 
was not with them. They had come a long 
way down the old road and had left me far 
behind, asleep. 

"Do you remember that butterfly we saw 
when we started?" he asked. 

She bent forward and asked him to say it 
again, for she was deaf. 

"Yes, yes," she answered in a thin voice. "I 
remember. And he said it was not the gold we 
were hunting, didn't he?" 

"That is what he said. And it was the same 
with the dandelions and the sunset and the 
stars. But I think he was mistaken." 

"I know he was," she said. "He told us they 
would not buy things, but just the remem- 
brance of them has bought more for me than all 
the gold I ever had." 

"And for me, too," he said. 





.'■!:\,7^r., 



.^ir 




7(t ttJill tie a goob irap 

for tfiis^ bjorllr luljen 

men learn tljat **Cftar= 

acter"s;pelfe**g>uccegs;;' 









^n Mtai 



HOW wonderful it would be to meet a 
bright, strong, capable young man who 
would say, "I don't want to be a success in the 
way men commonly use that word! 

"I don't want to be popular because of my 
capacity for conviviality or my readiness to 
spend money freely. 

"I don't want to make much money, because 
I have noticed that when a man goes in to make 
money, the money he makes often unmakes 
him. 

"I don't want to be well known for what I 
own, or prominent because of my bank ac- 
count. It will not matter to me whether wait- 
ers and porters know who I am, but it 
will matter to me whether the children in my 
street smile and are friendly when I come 
along. 

"I don't want to become so steeped in mat- 
ters of so-called 'business' as to have no time 
to walk along country roads and through 
wooded stretches; to learn the bird-calls com- 





The Great ENCouRACEnENTll 



■^?A 



mon to my part of the country; to sense the 
thrill of a June sunrise or the pathos of a sun- 
set in winter. 

"I don't want to be a success in the sight of 
men and a failure within the walls of my own 
home. 

"Perhaps I am foolish or behind the times, 
but I want to be able to give my best to those 
I love best, and to those for whose progress 
my best will mean most. 

"I want to measure my life by duties done 
rather than by dollars won. 

"I want to merit the friendliness of all 
honest working people with whom my work 
brings me in contact, and I want to be so 
genuine in speech and action that none of these 
will fail to accept me as an equal. I believe 
it is better to have the good will of an honest 
cart driver than the showy 'friendship' of a 
crafty bank president. 

"I want to train and work with men and 
women who believe in work as the finest thing 
in the world, and who respect any form of 
labor that is helpful. 

"I want to be useful to some one, for that 
will keep me from utter failure. 

"For a 'brilliant' career I have no desire. 

"I have noticed that most 'brilliant' careers 









The Great ENdbuRACEifENTllMj 



are meteor-like — and all a meteor does is to 
make men gasp. 

"I want to do what I can to keep men calm 
and courageous, and I have an idea that the 
way to begin is to school myself to be calm and 
courageous. 

"I am not so much interested in the family 
from which I came as in the family of which I 
am the possible head. The good or bad behind 
me is no affair of mine, but for the good or bad 
in front of me I am in some measure directly 
responsible. 

"If I can help to make this world a more 
comfortable and kindly place for children and 
mothers and *all who are desolate and op- 
pressed'; if I can help to put fairer laws into 
practice and coax more humanity out of men's 
hearts ; if I can live a clean life and be a good 
husband and a just father, I shall feel I have 
succeeded." 

How wonderful it v^ould be to hear some- 
thing like this ! 

Yet many young men are attempting tasks 
more difficult. 




got tip, but its; coun= 
gel isJ tlie eclio of (loir's; 
boice. 









-^ 


-^ 


1 










^^-^ 




^r-^m 




• 


Sa^ 




^!» 




^ 




?. 






^ 



.:ir^. 




p^(^t||i5||rpQjy©v(^ 



Cfie Uoice 



HAS the Voice ever whispered to you? 
The Voice that speaks sometimes 
through the upturned face of a child; some- 
times through a strain of beautiful music; 
again from the far, still stars on a clear night? 

The Voice that sounds now above the noise 
of the city streets; now in the soft musing of 
the meadow stream? 

Loudest and clearest, however, in the dark- 
ness of your own room, when your little part of 
the world is asleep ; when you almost can hear 
the beating of your own heart ; when you seem 
to stand face to face with what might be your 
soul. 

Has the Voice, at such times, ever whispered 
to you? 

Whispered of the things that are real; the 
things worth your time and skill and strength? 

Whispered imperiously of the things that 
really make life — not those externals which 
glow a moment in the sunshine of shallow 
thinking — but the vital verities of an existence 
that is more than material? 





-'SJr 



Hffi:QlEAl^v:ENG0URAGEME^ 



>mi^ 






Has the Voice ever caused you to doubt your 
own wisdom in elevating this or that to high 
place ; in taking serious notice of this or that ; 
in being swayed, guided or led by this or that? 

Saying to you, as if bearing a message from 
your own far-away self, "Can you not see! 
Can you not understand?" 

Have you ever closed your soul to the Voice? 

Have you ever said — in thought — to the 
Voice, "All you say is beautiful to hear, but 
can I keep alive on beautiful sayings? Am I 
not living in a world where matter-of-fact con- 
ditions must be faced day after day; where to 
gain certain results, certain methods must be 
used; where one is forced to deal with men 
and things as needs demand or custom dic- 
tates?" 

"Is anything more real and necessary than 
the need for providing food, and something to 
wear and a roof and walls for shelter? Shall 
I follow a whispering through a world of stern 
realities, or chase a butterfly on the heights, 
while those on the lower road are calling for 
bread and meat?" 

"Shall I let you lead me to ecstatic starva- 
tion?" 

If you will let the Voice answer these ques- 






-W 



^M Great Encouragemej^I 



, .^ik 




tions — which you are not apt to do — you will 
be told that these things at which you scoff 
as unreal are the most real. 

As real as love, which you cannot see or 
touch or measure into lengths or pounds. 

Yet what is so powerful as love? 

Yes, the Voice has whispered to you. 

It whispers often to each of us. But, because 
it cannot be eaten or spent or put on the man- 
tel, it is passed by as a silly will-o'-the-wisp 
sort of thing, an illusion. 

And because it is not listened to or heeded, 
we go stumbling — falling more often than we 
should ; bending double where we might stand 
erect; seeking in vain for the lights of life 
among the ruins of the material things in 
which we placed our trust. 

That Voice which speaks to us sometimes 
through the upturned face of a child; some- 
times through beautiful music; sometimes 
through the stars. 

Or in the darkness and silence of what we 
often miscall "loneliness !" 









j^ften failure fe hut 
tfje toitfjermg of tJje 
WosJ)e(om to mafee room 
for tfte fruit 








%:;:r,;-:^;.:'.^,;^-'?l,;,v.r;-.v:--;:j;^S: 




^lirafiam HintoWsi jTailure 

HERE are a few words for all who are dis- 
couraged — especially you young men 
and women around thirty-three who sometimes 
feel as if your grip on possible success isn't as 
strong as it might be or as you think it should 
be: 

I do not think I can come to Kentucky 
this season. I am so poor and make so 
little headway in the world, that I drop 
back in a month of idleness as much as I 
gain in a year's sowing. 

This is the exact wording of the last para- 
graph in a letter written to a certain Joshua F. 
Speed on the Fourth of July, 1842. 

That letter was dated at Springfield, Illinois, 
and the signature at the bottom of the page 
was "A. Lincoln." 

Yes, the same Lincoln who now ranks with 
the immortals as one of the few really great 
men who have lived. 

He was then well into his thirty-fourth year. 
Since earliest boyhood he had been struggling 





The Great Encourage^eni 



_^i2L. 



>-^> --^ 




against poverty and what is called "bad luck." 
The helpful friendship of Speed was about the 
only thing worth having that had come his 
way. 

In the summer of 1841 he suffered an attack 
of melancholia, which was largely dispelled by a 
visit to Speed's Kentucky home. Now his 
friend wanted him to come again, but he could 
not accept the invitation. 

With more than half his life behind him, 
Abraham Lincoln was "so poor" and had made 
"so little headway in the world" that he had 
neither heart nor money for this inexpensive 
trip! 

Does this mean anything to you — you who 
may have reached a like place? 

Doesn't it help you to know — by his own 
simple confession — that Lincoln faced failure 
at thirty-four? 

Had he more then than you have now, or 
quite so much, in some ways? 

Had any person as much in 1842 as any one 
has to-day? 

Think of the countless advantages added to 
human chances since the writing of that letter ! 

Discouraged, and doubtful of his own 
powers, he saw nothing behind and little ahead. 

But he plodded on, patiently. 





w 



Jhe Great ENCouRACEi^ENT^ 



j&-i=. 



•', ^■'•i^' 




He kept working. 

He did the best he could. 

And this page from the book of his life is 
passed along to you simply because, when I 
came upon it late the other night, the silence 
of the stars seemed grandly broken by a voice, 
saying : 

"Yes, I can understand. I have known what 
it is to be discouraged by lack of results. But, 
my friend, work on and you can win." 





SJTST 



J ■ ■ li^.iijv' -^ i; . 







'^afee time for plap 
^^ anb life ttJill gibe 
j)ou more time for pour 
toorfe. 





Jhe. Great ENCouRACEMENfi 



k. -'^^--- ^'--^ 




Cije Eingbom oC ^laj> 

BACK yonder across the years, where the 
hills were pure gold in the sunlight of 
Childhood; where flowers were high treasures 
and we feasted on fun — why shouldn't we wan- 
der through the fields of Memory on this and 
many another morning to that place where 
Play was king ! 

Why should our excursions into the past 
so often lead us to tearful and troublous times? 

Why, my friend? 

For in your book of years, as in all such 
books, are pages of light all printed in love and 
laughter, and the stories they tell are the sort 
that never grow old. 

They are about the Kingdom of Play, where 
once upon a time all of us were willing sub- 
jects of Joy. 

In this world we are subjects of two king- 
doms — the Kingdom of Play and the Kingdom 
of Work. On beyond, in some world of which 
we know nothing, perhaps we shall come to a 
kingdom where Work and Play have found 
their proper balance. 





The Great ENCouRAGEi^ENi 



^.-■.. j?^>£ ...^ ■ .-,..,. -. .,^i^., 



We know this balance has not yet been 
found here. 

This we know because we are not so happy 
as we would like to be, or as we could be if 
we better understood the relation of these two 
necessities. 

And while few seem to understand that 
Work is an open door to contentment, fewer 
still seem to sense the place of Play as a 
bridge to health of body and mind. 

As if blind, we stand unheedful of the great 
lesson daily lived before our very eyes by the 
children. 

Proud with a foolish pride, we laugh a little 
and go on about our "business." 

Just as if it were not high part of the busy- 
ness of life to play a little every day ! 

Perhaps we might think and act differently 
did we step more frequently into the magic 
coach of Memory to be whirled back over the 
hills and through the valleys into the meadows 
of the morning. 

Of all journeys we can make, none is so fine 
or so full of profit as this. 

It brings us once more in touch with things 
that were good and true to us when, as chil- 
dren, we found a wealth of pleasure in "those 






The Great ENCouRACEJnENT 




cheap delights which please the wise" — for 
children are wise. 

We need to revive the hopes and laughter of 
that morning-time, when all hurts could be 
kissed away, and sleep fell upon us like gentle 
rain on the flowers; when troubles passed like 
summer clouds and joys echoed through all the 
days — some of them even to this far day ! 

We need the faith and frankness of child- 
hood, even more now than when we gave them 
the best rooms in our lives. 

Are they gone? 

No, they are not gone. 

Just around the corner they are waiting to 
be called back. 

Just outside the closed doors of our hearts 
they stand patiently, waiting for us to let them 
in and make them welcome, as in the long 
ago. 

Perhaps they cannot understand why we 
have kept them there so long. Perhaps if they 
could speak, it would not be so. 

They do speak. If we listen, we can hear 
them, calling to us cheerily across the years — 
calling us back to the Kingdom of Play. 




^m femgliegt bfeitors; 
s^ometimes; come in 









Snasfmutfi 



ONE of Tolstoy's most beautiful stories is 
of a poor old Russian peasant who, think- 
ing the Christ soon would come back to earth, 
began to look for Him daily. 

Among those who passed his hut, he 
searched in vain for the figure he longed to 
see. Hour after hour he spent at the little 
light-hole, hoping to have his great desire satis- 
fied. 

He knew he would know his Friend, for that 
Friend would wear white garments and a halo 
would shine round His head. 

So through the summer he waited patiently. 

Winter came, harsh and cruel. In the village 
streets and the fields snow lay deep and sharp 
winds swept along like swirling legions of icy 
spears. 

The old man had to stuff the light-hole, so no 
longer could he look out. All day he would sit 
in his room, trying to catch the muffled sounds 
of passing feet and shuddering as he saw his 
scanty store of food grow smaller — wondering 
why the Christ was so long in coming. 





Great ENCOURAGEnENl 



jf^A 



At last came a knock at his door one evening. 

Quickly he opened it, but not to the expected 
visitor. Only a wretched traveler, ragged and 
chilled. But he was made welcome and given 
the seat nearest the fire, and with him the 
peasant shared the last of his food. 

That was a great sacrifice, for now if his 
Friend came, he would have nothing to give 
Him. So he did not try to talk, but sighed him- 
self to sleep. 

Suddenly for him the dark room was filled 
with a light bright as that of cloudless noon, 
and the Christ was by his side, saying, "I am 
the outcast you have sheltered and fed." 

When the old man awoke, the stranger was 
gone. 

Even so, by the little fires of our hoping 
hearts we sit awaiting heavenly visitors, not 
knowing that when they do come it will be as 
those with whom we have worked and dealt all 
these days. 

We work and wait for great things — the shin- 
ing garments and the halo — because we seek 
happiness and we think such a state must per- 
force dwell in grander form than that befitting 
lesser persons and events. 

All the while the common things which have 






Great ENcbuPLACEi'^ENl 




been ours from the very first are holding for 
us what we crave! 

All the time is hid behind the ragged front of 
our misfortunes and disappointments much of 
beauty and blessing, if only we will use them as 
friendly guides. 

Yet we wait for the burst of splendor, the 
sound of the trumpet, not knowing that these 
are for the few and that even then they are not 
so much as we think them to be. 

After all, the still small voice of the everyday 
thing is the finest of music, and the comfort to 
be had from common guests is the truest com- 
fort. 

The common guests who knock as beggars, 
yet leave our rooms filled with light, and us 
wondering why we should have complained! 





■w 



-'■^,&..., . M%. .^ 




7(n life, as; in Matmt, 
tlouh^ anb rain 
motljer s;uns;l)ine anb 
flotuers;* 





'^^ 






iM<3iBll^TxENfbyR 



iHinSjaVj!? 




tE'bt ^tormg of Me 

YOU know how it is sometimes when you 
walk in the country on an afternoon early 
in September — how your eyes feast on the 
grass that carpets the rolling, tree-set 
meadows ; how the far, low hills quiver in the 
warm haze; how all things seem ripe for the 
harvest ! 

Then quickly a cloud grows out of the 
smooth sky. Soon it has curtained the sun and 
brought on darkness. The air is awesome with 
that strange stillness which creeps before the 
storm. 

A gust of wind, and another. A splash of 
rain. A flash, a growl, and the torrents ! 

Suddenly it is over and the world is brighter 
than before, in the full glow of the returning 
sun. Dust is laid and every blade and leaf 
washed clean. The field is thick-set with 
sparkling jewels — "fresh water pearls" Rostand 
calls them. 

Your fear of the storm is lost now in joy at 
the beauty it left behind. 





pE. Great ^ENCOpRACEMENli 

-^ ■ J ^-'- • ■ r- - '-^^^ ' ' ^'' 

So sweep the storms of life across our little 
fields of being. 

And how often we make ourselves miserable 
as they approach, or even before they begin to 
gather — for many times we cower at the feet of 
Fear when comes no storm at all! 

Much we lose in counting loss before it 
comes — and most of it never comes ! 

But the storms that do come — the lowering 
days, the misty mornings and humid hours that 
mark and mar life's calendar — what of them? 

My friend, think a moment. 

If to Nature the circling years of days and 
nights brought only clear skies, how long 
would fields keep green and streams run flush ? 
How long would the soil continue to nourish 
and support mankind? 

If clouds never shut out the sun in summer ; 
if winds never waved the branches of trees 
and the slim banners of grass; if no rain fell 
and no refreshment came through fogs — where 
would we be at the end of a few months ? 

We must take and use the weather of life as 
Nature takes and uses the changes that come 
to her. Never a rose delayed its opening be- 
cause of a coming storm; never an apple 
withered rather than risk the wind. 

There is no fear in Nature, though every- 






Jhe Great ENCouRACEi^ENl 



.^iJ^ 




where she makes fine show of caution. And 
when her plans are upset by weather, she does 
not grieve or languish, but begins at once to re- 
build. 

So must we take the weather of life. 

Not yet are we wise enough to know how 
to eliminate grief and worry, and despair is 
ever kept within call. 

But in your heart — hidden behind many a 
fear, perhaps! — is a courage which, if loosed, 
will set at naught all storms that come, and 
keep you from losing what is lost through fear 
for those which never come. 

It is the courage Nature shows in the Spring, 
when she feeds on the fallen leaves Winter 
snatched from her last Autumn, and thus gains 
strength for the Summer of her highest joy — 
and ours. 





ere (g tJje liegt rec= 
ipe for a goob life: 
**®o pour tDorb as? Inell 
asJ pou can anb be feinb/' 












m^t ^rt of Work 

ONCE I talked about genius with a really 
great painter — a man whose work has 
won place and praise throughout the world, 
and said to him : 

"The more I see of men and their output, 
the more I feel that genius is energy efficiently 
applied." 

"You are right," he said. "I say you are 
right because I am thinking of my own ex- 
perience. I have some measure of what is 
called ^native ability,' and by making fair use 
of my time in the practice and cultivation of my 
gift, I have managed to turn out some good 
work. 

"I know now, however, that if I had made 
full use of my time, I would to-day be a better 
painter, and my acquaintance with men and 
women in the field of art bears me out in my 
belief that the ^secret' of success in art, as in 
everything else, is hard work. 

"There's John Sargent. Not long ago some 
one said to him, 'How fine it would be if more 





3he; GlU|AT:EN&URAGEMEhjl 



men were possessed of such rare ability as you 
have!' 

" 'How fine it would be if more men were 
possessed of a determination to work,' flashed 
Sargent. 'To-day in America are a hundred 
young painters who could do as good work as 
I ever did if they would apply themselves in- 
dustriously and devote themselves enthusiasti- 
cally to their art.' " 

Which turned my thoughts back to that sen- 
tence of Hugh Black's — "No great work of art 
is possible without previous training in the art 
of work." 

Yet few of those who have to work — and 
every man and woman HAS to work, though 
some do not know it — ever think of the art 
of work. 

Coursing down the centuries has come the 
story of how the first man brought upon him- 
self the "curse of labor"; how he was "con- 
demned" to earn his bread by the sweat of his 
brow. Few stop to think how this "curse" was 
born of the "blessing" of idleness ! 

When we view it in this, its true light, the 
picture changes. 

We see idleness as the severest penalty that 
can be visited upon man, and work as the high- 
est blessing. 






;...«^rif-.'-f:7~§.;!; 






mm^. 




Nor do we need the aid of allegory in this 
great visioning. 

We know work is the source of more happi- 
ness and helpfulness than any other thing 
within man's reach. 

We know it is the cornerstone of character, 
which is a tower built slowly with our every- 
day doing, and is not the result of occasional 
spiritual insight or mental exaltation. 

We know it is the mother of contentment, 
and that those who are most contented are 
those who have work to do and do it well. 

Our first ideal of God is as a worker — creat- 
ing the universe. 

Our first knowledge of Jesus is of a worker — 
helping Joseph in the carpenter shop. 

Our choicest personal memories are clus- 
tered about the first honest work we did when 
young. 

Life's first command is to work. 

Man's first endeavor should be to find work 
fitted to his strength and temperament — then 
to put into that work all possible energy and 
enthusiasm, so as to do it as well as he can. 











s-^vi-Ai^ 




Ttr'tt prime proftlem 
^"^ tnfjicli fatesi eacf) of 
us? fe ftoU) to mafee tfie 
ties;t of tije Here anb 
iSotD* 





The Great ENCouRACEiiEKT 




^ Bream 



I DREAMED the other night of a city. 
In that city the first thought was for the 
health of the people. 

All water given them to drink was clear and 
pure. The streets were swept at night, so dis- 
ease-laden dust would not fly in the faces of 
the people. The back streets were swept and 
sprinkled like the main ones, and all the alley- 
ways were clean. 

It was a beautiful city, not only because of 
trees and drives and well-kept houses, but be- 
cause within its bounds one had a feeling it 
was healthful — that it was making for ruddy- 
cheeked children who would grow to be full- 
bodied and strong men and women. 

And for happiness, because happiness follows 
health. 

In my dream I saw a creature walking 
through the streets of that city, crying out in a 
loud voice, "I am a lost soul! I am a lost 
soul!" 

A strong man on his way to work stopped to 
ask this creature what he meant. 





^^5!?: 

v-^.* 



"m 






H^:GRiAT.^,BNGfe)WR^^ 



m^ 




"I am a lost soul," he wailed. "I have done 
a wrong and I do not know where I shall go 
after I die!" 

"That is true enough, my friend," said the 
worker, "but it is of far greater importance that 
you should know how to go while you live. 
We of this city are not yet able to dissect 
souls to find whether they are lost or saved, 
but we know, from years of experience, that a 
saved body means peace and profit, and these 
things are needed in this world, whatever may 
be needed in the next. Come with me, my 
friend, and I will show you where to find some 
of the things you seem to have lost." 

So the worker took him to a church — I know 
it was a church, for it had a steeple. But within 
it was unlike any church I ever saw, for in 
place of pews were carpenters' benches and 
many different sorts of machinery. And men 
of all ages were working at these and making 
useful things, some of which also were beauti- 
ful. 

Down in the basement, which must once 
have been a Sunday-school room, were women 
and young girls. They sat there sewing, darn- 
ing and mending, and they laughed and talked 
as they worked. Flowers were around them 





...''■H'^jii 



P^GKEM^^ENSbUftAG 



ii^^;:-^ 



MlL 




and through the clean window glass the sun 
shined bright and warm. 

One of the men seemed to be a sort of fore- 
man, so I spoke to him, and he said he was the 
minister of that church. He wore blue overalls 
and his hands were black and oily from the 
machine he had been tending. 

"You do not look like a preacher," I said. 

"That is because I am not a preacher," he 
answered. "There is no preacher here. We are 
WORKING out our salvation, and the min- 
ister is chosen from among the best workmen. 
If he can talk well, he talks — sometimes. But 
we know that the best way to save the cargo 
is first to keep the ship from sinking. And we 
look upon the body as a ship which is carrying 
a soul through this existence to some higher 
existence." 

While we were talking, a man came in and 
looked all around and walked away without 
saying a word. I asked who that man was, and 
was told he was the mayor of the city. 

"It is his duty to see that the men and 
women are happy in their work," said the min- 
ister, "for unless they are, the city cannot be a 
good place in which to live." 

I asked where all these ideas had grown and 
who first had planted them in the minds and 








hearts of the people, and as he turned to an- 
swer, I awoke. 

I do not know the name of that city! 





AUG 7 1913 



